Poetry – Self-Portrait #1

Hey everyone,

I have been meaning to write some self-portraits as poems for a long time, and finally managed to smash one out. It’s pretty dark, but it was a nice cathartic release for me to write it.

Again, it’s in Iambic Pentameter (I can see why The Bard was so into it), and is in the Terza Rima form that one of my students got me on to (thanks, if you’re reading).

Brace yourself for some angst and self-pity – as if you aren’t expecting that from my writing anyway.




Self-Portrait #1

He stares at me back from the polished glass,
the light behind him sparkling like fireworks,
but as my view adjusts I see nought but a mask.

In darkened eyes though is a world of hurt:
of times abandoned – those who seemed to care
aware of burning pain that’s in the works;

of times beat down – hands thrown into the air,
the desperate surrender in his voice
simply a window into his despair;

of hard regrets – as if he had a choice
to be like this, suffer like that, and hold
back tears. Instead I watch the mask rejoice.

I can’t imagine what he’ll look like old,
in fact that is the point – the mask won’t change,
but stay the same, its sincere smile cold.

He looks away, and so do I, the page
on which we both reside is equally
a place to go and hide, as is the stage

that is our life. My thoughts are where he’ll be:
the hateful gaze remembered in mind’s eye
while in my mournful thoughts I’ll try to see

a proper way to help him when he cries –
in that reflection all I see is I.

Poetry – Through the night

Hey friends,

Apologies for not posting recently – my muse has been very quiet, so quiet in fact that I couldn’t even write a Furious Fiction story last month. There have been some big changes to the treatment of my mental illnesses over the last couple of months, which may be the reason I have had some trouble getting my head into gear.

Fortunately for me, though, I made a commitment to a student at my school who is writing poetry for her English Extension 2 major work. I agreed that I would write some poetry if she does for her major work. The stakes are obviously quite a bit higher for her. Nonetheless, we’re setting each other a challenge on the weekends. Sadly, I failed the first week as we decided to write a Sestina each and I was never happy with mine. She said that meant she “won” the first week, so I guess I have to “win” this week. An English teacher cannot be beaten by their student two weeks running.

This weekend we were writing “Terza Rima” poems (she was astounded that I knew that meant “third rhyme” when she wrote down the name after butchering the Italian pronunciation) and this is my entry to our little challenge. It’s a little stream-of-consciousness, but I like it all the same. In my investigations into the form I also came across the Terzanelle form – a hybrid of the Terza Rima and Villanelle forms – and if you know anything about my poetry, I doubt I will be able to resist writing one soon.

Anyway, I hope to post more often again. I feel better when I do and I like feeling better.

Happy reading, and see you next time!


Through the night

Now I can see
it all laid out
in front of me:

small chances flout-
ed by small men
who don’t care; out-

siders “amen”
while they walk back
to sultry dens,

red lanterns stacked
high, veiled behind
shrouds of jet-black.

I’m not the kind
to save them – I’d
rather they find

their own way, glide
through the winter
night, rocking side-

to-side, glitter
settling softly
like snow, bitter

tastes that will lead
them back home through
the dark, safely.

I don’t know who
to be now-days –
no time to screw

up, do what pays
the bills and hope
those I love stay

despite the slope
down which I slide
and climb. I cope

where I reside –
that is to say
my thoughts inside

are there to stay
unless of course
I find a way

to send them forth,
and make things right,
and use the force

that haunts the night
to settle my
internal fight.

I grasp the sky
now, fingertips
brushing clouds, high

enough that ships
look down on us
and wave. She slips

away, no fuss
is made but she
holds back. “You must

come back,” I see
her say. She turns
away, “I’ll be

waiting.” They burn,
those words, but through
the light I yearn

for morning. You
can see us now,
sometimes. We two

who still allow,
through pain and strife,
true love somehow.

And when this life
becomes too hard
that’s when my wife

will grasp my shards
and hold my heart,
forever scarred,

and let me start,
or fall apart.